


an image of castia, the cruelest angel of arpagia, as she falls to her knees at the feet of two teenagers

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, also i feel like even though shes a prospit dreamer, anyway. ill probably write another story, but im still working on tdate so dont worry about that its not abandoned, grimdark baby........., im such a slut for the "if youre grimdark and you kiss someone it makes THEM grimdark" trope, like as an extension????, vriska would be EXACTLY the type of person for the horrorterrors to possess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: we can't drink seawater, even though it is the most abundant type of liquid on earth, but only because the massive amount of salts and other minerals dissolved in it is harmful to our organs in large amounts. however, we can safely consume multiple types of natural chemicals that have been observed to be highly poisonous to animals such as capsaicin, marijuana, the otherworldly jet-black sludge that seeps from the orifices of those that have been taken by the cosmic flesh of those far older and wiser than they, the seeds of apples, and caffeine with negligible ill effects.a study of the intrinsical needs of the dersite high council.





	an image of castia, the cruelest angel of arpagia, as she falls to her knees at the feet of two teenagers

terezi’s too stubborn, too sure of herself. she knows when she’s right and when she’s wrong. the high council of derse feeds off insecurity, off inadequacy, off the deep dark feeling of solid, inescapable, stone-cold failure, and terezi pyrope can’t provide that.  
tavros is too weak, too malleable. his self-esteem is low and he is easily shaken. the high council of derse needs a strong body to act for them, a strong mind to think for them, and a strong will to fight for them, and tavros nitram can’t provide that.  
aradia’s too cheerful, too happy as she is. she sees no reason to change herself. the high council of derse pulls you apart and puts you back together, and needs a ward who aches for change, for something new, and aradia megido can’t provide that.  
karkat’s too frightened, too cowardly. he talks a big talk and has a big bluster, but he’s scared of things far more powerful than he. the high council of derse integrates only with true courage, with bravery when it counts the most, and karkat vantas can’t provide that.  
but _she_ can.  
rose moves up behind, lightly moving her paper-pale arms over vriska’s bare elbows. she squirms, her fangs bared, but you seize her by the shoulders to hold her steady. you’ve got your fingers in her hair, your lips and teeth and tongue on the cerulean-flushed skin of her neck and jaw, rose’s hands gripping her asymmetrical horns and keeping her in place as she struggles to escape. you have a vague awareness of the fact that your actions are not your own--but you continue. rose makes a mumbled, garbled noise--“ Jalu gayah yi Wirshagg , Mis't Serket”--and nods almost imperceptibly at you from her position with her left hand clutching at vriska’s chilled skin and her right hand twisting minute folds into vriska’s garish hero of light garb. you pull your sunglasses off of your face, shoving them up into your snow-white hair, and vriska’s mismatched eyes dilate, contract, and lock on yours. fear clouds them as she stares at you, yours and rose’s hair curling around her face like curious tentacles. she shivers, her anger turning rapidly to fear, as rose trails icy fingers tipped with diamond nails up the side of her face in uncharacteristically focused fascination.  
you whisper to your sister, quiet eldritch babble, and vriska tenses as if she knows what’s coming as you pull back ever so slightly, letting rose take your place with a sigh of moving air. you shift around to vriska’s back, your winter-cold palms on her hips and your breath ghosts over her collarbone, raising tiny blue goosebumps on the exposed flesh. vriska’s breaths quicken and her pulse rises--you can feel it through her back--as rose grows closer, her eyes still stick on yours as their lips finally connect.  
as the coal-black sludge oozes into her from somewhere inside your sister, vriska shrieks into rose’s mouth; you can hear it through the ceaseless roaring and ticking in your ears. she squirms harder, but you hold fast, and her eyes quickly slip closed as she slumps against rose’s far shorter frame, a rush of ebony water pouring from her slightly-open mouth as her lips disconnect from rose’s. she’s still as a statue for a moment before her eyes shoot open and she staggers away from the two of you--but of course, the damage is already done. her hair frizzes outward of its own accord as her chest heaves, the yellow light symbol emblazoned on her front rising and falling with her rapid, shallow breaths. she falls to her knees, a mockery of worship in front of the stolid figures of you and your sister. her body’s wracked with shuddering coughs, unappealing clots of tar-like black dripping from her mouth, seemingly an endless supply. she slowly raises her head, her self-lightening hair hanging lank and limp around her face, and as her skin slowly darkens and eyes white out, a look of electric-charged hatred forces its way out of her before she grips her head and screams like an opera singer, fanged mouth open and voice impossibly loud as the high council takes her as one of their own.  
you don’t laugh, but you almost smile. vriska stands up to her full height, her horns a slick pale gradient and her skin a dark charcoal gray, a cloud of unruly levitating hair floating lazily around her shoulders and her eyes glossy white like a dream-bubble ghost’s. her own mouth splits into a slightly too-wide grin, and rose claps like an excited child next to you. you hold out your arms and vriska glides into them, her viscous grim aura allowing her to hover inches above the floor, trickling from the small creases of her blue wings into the hood of her dull orange thief of light outfit. you kiss her, the odd sensation of _feeling_ waxy lipstick but not _tasting_ it overwhelming you. she draws back, her mouth seemingly stuck in that stretched smile.  
you decide to find the others. you have to finish what you’ve started.

**Author's Note:**

> You taste of Prospit, Miss Serket.


End file.
